


Of Coppers and Dogs

by ladygray99



Category: Discworld - Pratchett
Genre: Collars, Community: rounds_of_kink, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-05
Updated: 2010-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:12:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygray99/pseuds/ladygray99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vimes know's everyone's someone's dog... though Havelock might be pushing it a bit with the collar and all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Coppers and Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [О копах и псах](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1322737) by [morcabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morcabre/pseuds/morcabre)



You couldn’t convince Sam Vimes that this was normal, or part of some ancient tradition. He was willing to believe it was a case of nobby old families being bloody weird.

 Vimes wanted to finger the collar around his neck but had been told not to move. He’d been around long enough to know the difference between an order and an _order_. Vetinari seemed to know what Vimes wanted and ran a finger around Vimes’ neck between the collar and the skin. Vimes tried not to sigh. He had a very sinking feeling that if he had a tail it would be wagging.

 Vimes was a copper and Vimes knew that most days a copper was no better than a dog. Run and he’ll chase and keep chasing until someone tells him to heel. Of course there were plenty of times he kept chasing long after the order to heel came down. Again the difference between and order and an _order;_ the subtle difference between a copper and a dog.

 It wasn’t even really a dog collar that the Patrician had slipped around Vimes’ neck. It was meant for a man, meant for him. It sat low and could vanish under a simple shirt. Heck it could almost qualify as armour, protection against an Assassins garrote. Of course the Assassins Guild had closed the book on him so there was no need for such a thing. There was equally no need for it to match the wide bands of leather Vetinari had strapped around his wrists, the banned Vimes family crest blazoned on them.

 The Patrician ran long cold fingers down the back of Vimes’ neck.

 “I’m not a dog.” Vimes said. He hadn’t been ordered to be silent, just still. “I’m not your dog.”

 “I never said you were.” Vetinari answered cleanly. Vimes swallowed around the collar. Vetinari stroked the back of his neck again and again, from the edge of Vimes’ close cropped hair to the top of the collar. “But, everyone is someone’s dog, Sam. If you’re not mine, than whose?”

“The city’s.” Vimes answered without thought but knew it was true. He’d been the city’s dog since he took the oath of a copper.

“Ah.” Said Vetinari, his fingers never stopping. “But isn’t the city mine?”

“No.” answered Vimes, his head tilting down giving Vetinari more of his neck. “The people let you run it.”

“_You_ let me run it you mean, the city’s watch dog.” Vimes didn’t answer. “And if I run it badly, overstep my bounds, will you turn on me, tear out my throat, have my head?”

“Yes.” said Vimes. It had happened before. Stoneface Vimes had taken the head of the last king of Ankh-Morpork without benefit of writ or law, like a dog turned on its master. He had been a jolly king. Fond of children. _Very_ fond of children.

Vetinari’s hand stopped for the briefest of moments before it continued its path down Vimes’ neck, skipping the collar and continuing down Vimes’ bare spine. Vimes tried not to shiver at the touch of those cool fingers.

 “It’s good to know where your loyalties lay, Sam.” Vimes willed his non existent tail not to wag at the sound of his first name. No titles, no knight hood or lordships, just Sam from the wrong side of the Ankh. A copper. For some reason he didn’t think he’d get away with addressing Vetinari as Havelock the way his wife did.

Wife. Oh, that put a damper on the tail wagging. Vetinari was tracing odd patterns in the skin around his tail bone.

 Sybil would kill him.

 No she wouldn’t. The Ramkins were the oldest of the old, as high born as you could get without floating off the Disc. Sybil would understand. She would understand that _things_ were sometimes done to insure loyalties, alliances, make sure one family stayed true to another. No different than the things done against walls in the festering back alleys in the Shades, really. Only difference was the silk sheets, and if you’re lucky the butler will draw you a bath after.

 Vetinari’s fingers travelled back up and hooked under Vimes’ collar and with the subtlest of tensions lead towards the bed with silk sheets and the Vetinari family crest. Vimes’ didn’t fight. He could, but a copper knew when to pick and choose fights, not just snap at anything like a dog. A fight with Vetinari could be saved for something important, instead of just a moment of nobby old families being bloody weird.


End file.
